


Sensitive

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:24:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Just my guess at what's under Bloodhound's mask, I suppose.





	Sensitive

**Author's Note:**

> I have better theories of what's under Bloodhound's mask, but we'll save it for another fic.

It's taken a lot of work to get here. 

Fleeting moments on the battle field, bleeding out in ditches, holding onto Mirage's hand when they can, waiting to die and be brought back by the green light. 

Those long, slow mornings lying in bed together, fully clothed, the picture of chastity, but holding one another so closely and intimately that the notion of disturbing the peace with more sordid activities is pure heresy. 

Whether life hits hard and fast, smacking their faces with painful truths and beats their bodies down with traumatic injuries, or treats them gently, with kind interludes and thoughtful pauses for reflection, Elliott Witt and Bloodhound, Hound as they are affectionately called, like the little mutt Elliott had so cherished as a small boy, find time and space to share. 

If Elliott wants to pull at Hound's coat, Hound must try not to remember him yanking at his collar, sinking his fist into their face for a final blow. 

If Hound wants to pull at Elliott's hair, gently, soothingly, running their fingers through his soft brown locks, Elliott must try not to remember the gaping holes in his body, or Hound's hand in his hair as they'd laid him onto the ground, placing his gun respectfully over his chest. 

Most of all, they want the other not to remember the pain they have inflicted.

The misery of being shot down, of being punched and kicked and pummeled until they can't take it anymore and black out. 

The ring is punishing in its own way, but at least it is impartial. 

It is not unkind, simply a mindless device that inflicts pain.

They are human weapons. 

Tools built, crafted, to create suffering, same as the ring. 

Yet, weapons don't beg for forgiveness. 

Elliott begs without words, as does his partner, who had first begged wordlessly simply by tugging at the mask. 

After all the time they had known one another, learning from what seems like a lifetime of endless battles, so numerous that they all blurred together, this is the one thing Bloodhound had not ever given him, and they desperately want it to mean something. 

So they loosen the ends of the mask. Lying under Elliott, between his strong thighs, quivering around their waist, Bloodhound loosens the mash. Without explaining what they are doing, Bloodhound removes the last human defense they have, letting down their final barrier to let Elliott in.

They are not sure why this particular night.

Perhaps because they had seen Elliott's head blasted open, shotgun shells mixing in with brains and viscera, his squad's blood on their hands. 

Perhaps because Elliott's lips, soft and warm and affectionate in a way they have never known were bleeding. 

Or even just because tonight, more than any other nights, they simply feel the need to apologize more urgently than before. 

They know how much Elliott yearns to know, how desperately he seeks the truth, the intimacy of not only seeing, but being properly seen. 

And they want him to know. 

Elliott gasps. Of course he does. 

Everyone does. 

Hound closes their eyes, accepting their horrified stare, their probing gaze, the telltale tingle of the first impression on their flesh. 

It has been this way since they were young. 

"Is this why you wear the mask?" Elliott whispers. 

His rough, warm hand traces over pale skin, twisted by burn scars that could've only come from a powerful chemical explosion, burning off a layer of skin and searing irreparably through inner flesh. 

He rubs Hound's rippled cheek, feeling the burns, the pain etched into their skin, hesitating near their right eye, which is milky white, staring sightlessly forward. Elliott's fingers run through Hound's white hair, massaging their scalp, thumb gently stroking the skin near their blind eye. 

Back and forth, his thumb traces the wound from their brow to their chin, tracing the crisscrossing pink and white lines of flesh that had been baptized by agony. 

Wrinkles, dips and crags, depressions and hills of sagging flesh, Elliott explores every one, leaning down to kiss the scars on Hound's nose, then their cheek, then their mouth, his chapped lips pressing against cold, shriveled lips. He kisses their forehead, their throat, depressed and crumpled by similar scarring. 

"No," Hound moans between kisses to their throat and gentle kisses to the corner of their mouth, then to their lips again. 

Elliott strokes the uninjured half of their face with his other hand, looking deeply into their functioning eye, brimming with arousal, fear, and sorrow. 

"Good," he murmurs. "Because you are beautiful." 

Hound flushes and Elliott could scream at the stars in relief, because he has been blessed with a particular sight today.

The sight of Hound's soul. 

Something they had guarded so vigilantly, so fervently, for so long. 

Their eyes tell a story. 

They reveal their heart. 

Inch by inch, Hound allows him in, welcomes him to their home, and he settles within, never wanting to leave.

Elliott leans in closer, legs pulling in tighter around Hound's body, crotch rubbing against theirs. He feels them stiffen, but not with reluctance. Only eagerness.

They surge up to kiss him back, rubbing almost painfully up against him, their hands pulling at his clothes, pawing at his chest. 

No longer is Hound waiting for judgment, for him to look and see. 

Now they want him to touch. To hear, smell, taste, understand what they hide so covetously. 

When one wall came crashing down, the rest easily followed suit.

Elliott feels Hound pulling at his shirt, and he rushes to help, yanking it over his head and tossing it in a corner. 

Hound's own shirt is swiftly undone, but before they can fully pull it off, Elliott leans down to kiss their flat belly, their chest, toned from rigorous training and tracking through difficult terrains, tracing more burn scars, more crevasses and imperfections that are so perfect in their own way. Hound's hands touch his chest, pushing at it as though to shove him away, but in actuality, they are feeling his bare skin with their own, touch-starved from holding others at a strict physical distance for so long. They squirm under Elliott's careful attentions, lips kissing, teeth occasionally nipping at their neck again, falling to the soft skin of their collarbone, tongue lightly teasing a nipple. Hound gasps and responds in kind, hands reaching up to stroke at Elliott's hips, running up and down his sides, trying to pull him closer, trying to gain some friction, increase the already scorching heat between their bodies. 

"I...I wear...the mask," Hound says between kisses, their voice breathless and frantic. "Because if I were to look at my own flesh and blood, my-my brethren, without one, then their humanity would stay my hand." 

Elliott pauses.

His eyes are closed, his nose lightly touching Hound's neck, hot breaths tingling against their skin. 

"I understand," he says quietly. "I understand completely." 

And as he begins to slide out of his pants, Hound, wiggling out of their own, warm flesh electrified by the touch of another's, thinks that Elliott does. 

He understands now, better than ever before. 

And even if they have to kill Elliott tomorrow, sinking their knife through his eye, under his armpit, through his heart, shoot him down and beat him until he is unrecognizable, they know at least that underneath the mask is someone who loves him dearly, and mourns the loss of their free will. 

But in moments like these, their affection can be known. 

Here, they are free. 

**Author's Note:**

> *whispers, I am not good at writing sexy stuff, because everyone has a different idea of what's sexy, and I don't understand people very well.


End file.
